


Once a Companion

by strawberriez8800



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: 1916, Alternate Universe - World War I, M/M, Period-Typical Misogyny About Prostitutes, Tommy and Alfie meet in France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23963818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: Alfie was about leave when he noticed the only bright spot in the pub; it was a stranger, sitting on the other side of the bar with these pensive, soulful eyes that looked like they’d seen Hell thrice over—hadn’t they all?—and as far as Alfie could tell, they were the only ones here having an awful time.Tommy and Alfie meet in France on leave, during the war.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 10
Kudos: 114
Collections: Peaky Blinders Prompt Fest - Spring 2020





	Once a Companion

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [PBPromptFestSpring2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PBPromptFestSpring2020) collection. 



> I couldn't get this idea out of my head. I hope you enjoy this! It was really fun to write :)

_1916_   
_Northern France_

There was no other way about it: the pub in Le Havre was awful. Alfie couldn’t quite tell if he was drinking beer or piss, yet it was the best thing he’d had in recent memory.

France certainly had a penchant for lowering one’s standards until everything inconsequential became life’s greatest indulgences. Still, the whores here weren’t half bad, though what was just as likely—perhaps more so—was the unfortunate truth that Alfie had simply gone far too long without a good fuck.

These days, however, any sort of fucking that didn’t involve German guts spilling on the other side was already difficult enough to come by, let alone a good one. So, when Alfie tossed a franc to Madame Durand who ran the whorehouse next door, he didn’t pay too much heed to the woman he would take to bed this evening; a whore was a whore, with breasts to touch and a pussy to fuck—didn’t need to be good, just had to _be._

Some did have prettier faces than others, of course, but faces—faces were but luxuries Alfie no longer had the patience for. They had all come to look the same in his eyes. How the fuck that had happened, he didn’t dwell on it; nothing good had ever come out of dwelling too much in this life, in France.

Upstairs, in one of the many rooms, Alfie fucked her from behind. The experience was minimal at best, yet minimal was still far from nothing. When he was done, he paid the whore three francs—what the fuck else did he need the money for, anyway?—and left the establishment.

The night was cold and damp, and the wind was merciless; thus, it was an easy decision for Alfie to return to the same bar he’d been earlier that evening. Although it did leave much to be desired, at least it was warm and dry.

Alfie procured himself a drink and scooted to the corner of the bar, because the last thing he wanted right now was to talk. So he drank, he watched, and sometimes he listened—to chatter around him, to the lively yet somewhat grating music, to everything and nothing at once.

At first, he didn’t notice it, but as the minutes ticked by, it began to rise to the forefront of his mind like a body surfacing on water; there was a stilted sort of energy in the air—a little strained, a little make-believe, as if everyone was trying too hard— too _fucking hard_ —to forget, to indulge in this brief respite just in case it was their last.

It choked him.

Setting the glass down, Alfie rose to his feet, about to make his way out when he noticed the only bright spot in the room; it was a stranger, sitting on the other side of the bar with these pensive, soulful eyes that looked like they’d seen Hell thrice over—hadn’t they all?—and as far as Alfie could tell, they were the only ones having a terrible time in this terrible pub.

It was as common a ground as any, so Alfie walked around the bar and sidled into the empty stool beside the stranger, who was looking more miserable by the minute.

“If you asked me, right, a proper fuck would go nicely with this sorry excuse of a drink,” Alfie said to him, and it was rather far from the truth, but he had to say _something_. Belatedly, he realised his greeting could’ve been perceived as a sexual proposition, which—whilst he wouldn’t object to such a thing—was rather forward even for Alfie, so he said, “Madame Durand next door can help you out, for there are choices aplenty. Speaking from experience, mate.”

“Well, I didn’t ask,” the man responded, raising an eyebrow. His blue eyes trailed from Alfie’s to the insignia on his uniform. “Captain.” Somehow, the way he said it sounded like a sneer and an apology at once, which was shockingly alluring—an observation Alfie brushed aside hastily.

“Call me Alfie, please. One more reminder I’m in the war, right, I might just fucking shoot myself in the face.”

Lighting a cigarette, the man said, “That’s not funny, is it?”

“I’m not laughing, mate,” Alfie said and gestured to the bartender for some ale.

The stranger appraised him in silence, the weight of his gaze made heavier by the drinks behind it. “Fair enough,” he said eventually and took a drag on his cigarette. “I’m Thomas Shelby. Tommy, Tom, whatever the fuck.”

The bartender served Alfie his drink. After they were left alone, Alfie said to Tommy, “Now, what were you looking so bloody miserable over, Tom? Or is that too deep for a first conversation?” He studied Tommy with a little too much intensity than his wholly-sober self would ever allow; the soft glow of the tavern’s lights caressed Tommy’s face with a tenderness that was at odds with the ambiance, yet it did seem ever fitting.

“Try again,” Tommy said, tipping his cigarette into an ashtray.

Alfie huffed. “Fine. Where are you from?”

“Birmingham.”

“Ah, that explains it, it does.”

Scowling, Tommy asked, “What does?”

“Being miserable and coming from Birmingham? Not a coincidence, mate. Shithole of a place it is, yeah.”

“You’re a bastard.”

He took a swig of his ale, grinning. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Tommy exhaled smoke into the air. “Are you sure? We’d be here till the fucking war is over.”

What a cheeky, delightful little fuck. Alfie’s evening was looking better already, and by the reticent smirk on Tommy’s mouth, it wouldn’t be entirely absurd to say Tommy’s was too, so they talked about many things: home, family, work, everything that wasn’t France and everything that used to be.

It was—pleasant, actually; Tommy was a decent companion for a conversation, even if he wasn’t much for words, which only meant Alfie was all the more intent in listening whenever Tommy did speak. In any case, Alfie surely talked more than enough for the both of them, which he was somewhat embarrassed by upon the realisation, yet Tommy didn’t seem to mind.

When their conversation receded to a lull, Tommy asked, “About this Madame Durand. Any recommendations?”

Alfie glanced at him, attempting to gauge the curiosity in Tommy’s question; the fact that Tommy was actually interested disappointed Alfie somewhat; perhaps he’d hoped Tommy was a man of similar inclination, in a way. What a shame.

“Can’t tell you, mate,” Alfie said, shrugging. “I don’t care to remember them.”

“French whores don’t strike your interest, eh?” Tommy said, and Alfie could _hear_ the fucking smirk in his voice.

Alfie shrugged again. “I have standards.”

Clearly, he was now a bastard _and_ a liar, considering his choice of recreation an hour ago.

Tommy stubbed out his cigarette on the ashtray. Their eyes met, and nothing was said for a moment that felt far too fucking long, the heavy silence between them squeezing the air out of Alfie’s chest, gradual yet certain, until Tommy said, “Good to know.” He rose from his stool and started to walk away.

Alfie stared at his abrupt departure, bewildered, but Tommy simply cast him a glance over his shoulder as he sauntered towards the exit. The realisation of what exactly was happening dawned on Alfie—slowly, then all at once, like a landslide.

Oh.

_Oh._

...what the _fuck_ was Alfie supposed to do with this? He knew, of course, which choice was worse—damned by himself if he didn’t do anything about it, and damned by everyone else if he did.

But he didn’t need to live with everyone else, did he?

So, like a lap dog, Alfie tossed the last modicum of his dignity and went after Tom, because he was in the middle of a fucking war, stuck in fucking Le Havre on what could be his last days on this godforsaken earth with nothing else to lose except his sanity; if he didn’t fuck Tommy Shelby tonight, Alfie might very well lose what little of it he had left.

Tommy was waiting for him in the alley beside the building, smoking a cigarette, no doubt trying to command an air of nonchalance. Yet Alfie knew people; thus, by the slight tremor of the glowing cigarette and the way Tommy’s fingers tugged at the hem of his sleeve, he was certain Tommy was anything but nonchalant and the knowledge was nothing short of _thrilling_.

In the shadows against the brick wall, with his heart fluttering behind his rib cage, Alfie brushed his lips against Tommy’s. Although in the night they felt ever cold upon Alfie’s, as they kissed, Tommy’s lips warmed beneath his, much like the way his demeanor softened under Alfie’s touch. He rocked his hips against Tommy’s, his stiffening cock rubbing against Tommy’s thigh through clothes—too many fucking _layers_ of clothes that he wanted too badly to strip, but he didn’t, and instead, willed himself to slow down. Tommy brought a hand around Alfie’s arse tugged him closer.

Grinning into the kiss, Alfie said, “Eager, aren’t you?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy mumbled and sealed his mouth over Alfie’s once more, his hands sliding up Alfie’s shoulders and around his neck as he leaned into him.

They panted into each other, hot breaths stark in the cold, leaving warm paths of air against exposed skin. Alfie shivered—from the cold, from the heat, from Tommy’s touch, fucking everything. It was peculiar—the way they moved against one another, as if they weren’t strangers but lovers attuned to every kiss, every stroke, every hitch of a breath as they teased at the fringe of a fantasy.

“I have a better idea, Alfie,” Tommy rasped between kisses along Alfie’s jaw.

He closed his eyes and breathed in Tommy’s scent—the musk of sweat, gunpowder and all things marvellous. “There’s honestly no better idea than _this_ right now, Tom.”

A curt chuckle sounded at the back of Tommy’s throat. “You’ll see.” He stepped away from Alfie and walked back into the light.

Alfie sighed. “This better be fucking worth it.”

* * *

When Alfie found himself back in one of the rooms at Madame Durand’s brothel with a whore he had no plans to touch, it was fucking bizarre, to say the least. Fortunately, Alfie was released from the crippling awkwardness when Tommy slipped into the room.

Tommy dropped a couple of francs into the woman’s palm. “Go to Room Eight where the whore I paid for is waiting. Stay there until, well, whenever the fuck you want,” he said with a polite smile. “Remember—I will cut you if you breathe a word about this. And if you don’t, you might have found yourself a repeat client who doesn’t need you to spread your legs. Does that sound agreeable to you, eh?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Tommy said, “off you go, then.”

After she had left the room, Alfie exhaled in a light whistle. “That was—” _incredibly arousing_ “—excessive.”

A small smirk toyed at the corners of Tommy’s mouth. “All in the name of a proper fuck.”

“You and your bloody ideas.”

* * *

Later that night, when they lay spent beside each other in the too-cramped bed, Alfie’s last coherent thought was—he would absolutely, unequivocally be fine with dying right about now.


End file.
